The Hope of a Dream
by GloriousBlackout
Summary: Three years after watching his best friend die John still struggles to survive without the brilliant Sherlock Holmes. However, after recieving a mysterious message, the idea of being reunited with Sherlock starts to seem possible outside of his dreams.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N. It's been a while since my last fic but hopefully I'll be able to write more soon :) This could be considered a sequel to my story 'Dreams and Ghosts' but it can be read alone. Enjoy :) **

_Disclaimer: I own nothing :( _

* * *

John woke with the all too familiar sensation of having his heart ripped from his chest. He lay still for a few moments, staring at the ceiling and going through his daily ritual of 'Sherlock isn't coming back. Stop getting your hopes up John, he's dead.' The sheets were damp with sweat and his breathing was erratic but he knew it would pass. It always did.

He'd dreamt of Sherlock again. It hadn't been a nightmare. Strangely enough, it never was when Sherlock was involved. It had been an ordinary dream, pleasant even. While it had lasted of course.

That was always the problem. With nightmares there was the initial shock that gripped him as he awoke to an empty room but then a flood of overwhelming relief as he realised that the horrors he'd just witnessed had been a mere figment of his imagination.

With dreams the result was simply cruel. John spent his nights running around the London streets with Sherlock, catching criminals and putting himself in constant danger for the one man he knew he'd do anything for. Or sometimes he would simply watch as Sherlock delivered deduction after deduction, never failing to leave John open-mouthed in awe or stumbling over the many compliments that threatened to slip from his lips. He could watch that man for hours as he worked, his mind racing faster than a speeding bullet and his hands dancing in mid-air to illustrate his points. With Sherlock John felt complete, as if the gaping hole that had been carved out of his heart had suddenly been filled. Even when the detective was being his ever-difficult self John felt happier than he could remember being.

And then he woke up.

He was helpless to stop his eyes from flying open. He could hardly sleep forever after all. He didn't have that luxury, whereas Sherlock did. John envied Sherlock sometimes. _He_ didn't have to experience the agony and helplessness that had plagued him ever since he'd watched his best friend fall, spread-eagled, to his death.

God, he couldn't describe how much he missed that bastard.

That was the cruelty of dreams. They provided John with a false sense of comfort before snatching it away from him again. Every single morning he lost his best friend all over again and he was beginning to wonder how long he could carry on living like this.

With a sigh he dragged his trembling hands up to his face and rubbed his eyes, trying to wake himself up properly. As far as he knew, Lestrade had no new cases for him so it was work at the surgery today, like normal.

Normality. Such a pointless concept.

'Great. You even sound like him now.' John smirked before rising from the bed, yawning as he staggered over to the bathroom in order to get ready. It was early, far too early for him to be considering heading out to work but that didn't faze him. He could go for a walk or pay Lestrade a visit as he finished his night-shift. He wasn't going to sleep again. He couldn't risk getting his heart torn out twice in one day.

So he got washed. Got dressed. Ate a hurried breakfast and went for a walk around the city centre, trying to ignore the shadow of his best friend that followed him in his memory. And, when he knew that the surgery must surely be open by now, he made his way over to the surgery and greeted Sarah with a forced smile and a brief "hello" before waiting patiently for his first appointment.

Very normal. Very boring. But that was his life now.

That was what life without Sherlock Holmes was like.

* * *

The graveyard was peaceful, serene even as John made his way over to a particular grave. The few mourners that were dotted around the place were too caught up in their own silent worlds to notice the army doctor who limped past the grand stones, wearing an expressionless mask.

He wasn't entirely sure why he'd come here. He hadn't paid Sherlock a visit in months, too busy trying to convince himself that he was finally moving on to return here. However today the idea of visiting his friend's grave had planted itself in his mind and had refused to shut up all day. Eventually, instead of ignoring the impulse he'd surrendered to it, finishing up early and telling Sarah that he had a 'family emergency' before spending the entirety of the cab-ride trying to figure out why he'd wanted to come here so desperately.

He neither knew nor cared. It was like Sherlock had called out to him and John knew he'd always come running when that happened.

He stopped as he finally found himself standing before the handsome black stone. A small bundle of flowers told him that Mrs Hudson had paid her weekly visit but other than that the grave looked rather neglected, tall weeds obscuring the gold lettering. John uprooted a handful of them as if their mere presence was an insult to the great man who lay buried beneath his feet. And then all he could do was stand before the grave, shifting uncomfortably as the words he wanted to say remained frozen on the tip of his tongue.

"Uh... yeah. Hello, again." John laughed awkwardly. He could already sense Sherlock rolling his eyes in disapproval. He took a deep breath before continuing, making up the words as he went along. "I'm sorry it's been so long. I've been busy lately." He hadn't, but he knew that any other excuse would be equally untrue. He couldn't bring himself to voice aloud why he'd been unable to bear visiting the grave for a while. "It's your birthday today, apparently. I know you never really cared about that but..." John smiled weakly as he remembered a particular occasion where Sherlock had turned Mrs Hudson's home-made birthday cake into an experiment. "I thought I'd visit anyway. I suppose I have an excuse to now."

He stood silently again for a few moments, leaning heavily on his cane before wandering over to the stone and resting a hand on it gently. The marble was smooth and cool beneath his fingertips. John could almost imagine Sherlock's skin feeling like this. With his pale skin and sharp features, not to mention his cool demeanour, he could almost have been a piece of artwork himself. The prized work of a skilled sculptor, all gone to waste now.

John let his hand lie on the stone for a moment, knowing that it was possibly the only form of physical contact he could have with his best friend now. He should probably leave now, before the tears came forth. He'd been here long enough and besides, Sherlock wouldn't mind if he left. Wouldn't even have cared that John had visited in the first place.

"I missed you Sherlock, I still miss you." John swallowed and forced back the burning sensation of tears before tearing himself away from the gravestone and beginning to walk away.

"Oh. And if there is a slim chance that I will see you again in god-knows-where, try not to start a war with Moriarty before I get there, alright? I'd like you back in one piece." He laughed at the ridiculousness of his own request before giving his friend a final salute. "Goodbye then. I imagine you found all of this incredibly boring."

He smiled as the distant yell of 'Bored!' rang through his head before he finally dragged himself away. He couldn't decide if this visit had helped him or hurt him but he wasn't given the time to dwell on it. His phone buzzed uselessly and he swore at it before pulling it free from his pocket.

One look at the text sent a crippling pang of grief slicing through his chest.

**Wrong**

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**A/N. I hope you enjoyed :) I'm hoping to continue this, although updates may take a while due to exams. Any feedback is appreciated.**


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N Thanks to everyone who has reviewed or favourited this story :) Here's the next chapter. I hope you enjoy.**_

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_John decided in those few sickening seconds that watching a friend fall from a great height was the most helpless feeling in the world. He could see it happening before his eyes, was well aware of **what** was happening and could feel the dull horror freeze him in his tracks. But he was too far away to do anything else but watch. Watch as Sherlock was dragged down towards the unforgiving surface of the pavement by gravity's merciless hand, coat floating out behind him and arms outstretched as if he were flying. But humans weren't meant to fly. They were known to fall._

_Within seconds John found himself kneeling by his best friend's side with no recollection as to how he got there. He was clutching his hand, fingers digging into his cold wrist while he begged, prayed even, for the reassuring thump-thump of a heartbeat. The silence that greeted him was deafening. He fought against the people who tried to drag him away. Sherlock needed him, had never needed him more, and John was his friend. He had to do something, **anything, **because Sherlock Holmes could not be dead. Surely if such a terrible thing had happened then the entire universe would have shivered. _

_John's heart stopped when the people without faces, for he had never really been able to concentrate on them, rolled his friend onto his back. His breath still forced itself from his lungs in laboured gasps and his mind still screamed but his heart was surely dead. The sightless eyes that stared back at him still had the ability to peer into his soul, but the spark that hinted at the brilliance within was absent. They were simply dull and empty. No life lurked in those once shimmering blue depths and Sherlock was gone._

_Gone... No, Sherlock wasn't gone. He'd never be gone. He wouldn't leave John alone in this now grey world. Sherlock wasn't that cruel. But this wasn't Sherlock, was it? This was a shell. Broken. **Empty.**_

_Just like John._

* * *

It wasn't with a scream that John woke but a pained whimper. It had been so long since these dreams had plagued him and the dull ache in his chest seemed almost alien now. He buried his head in the pillow and choked back the sob that threatened to break free from his throat. He refused to cry. It had been three years and he was moving on, slowly but surely. He didn't need any more tears.

With a deep sigh he pulled himself free from the bed, squinting at the thin streams of light that flitted past the curtains. He rubbed his tired eyes before reaching for his phone. Half-four in the morning. Too early to do anything but he wasn't going back to sleep. Not when he knew what images lurked behind his closed eyes.

Reluctantly John opened up the mysterious, yet strangely familiar message from yesterday. '**Wrong.' **That was it. Short and blunt and so very Sherlock that it made his heart ache. His friend had never really gotten out of the habit of texting unsuspecting and clueless journalists during press conferences, a habit that had annoyed Lestrade to no end. It would be typical of him to send it to John after a particularly boring and awkward speech by his grave.

But that, of course, was impossible. And at least Sherlock would have made himself known, even if it was just to show off. This message gave John nothing to work with except a single word and an untraceable number. Even if John had the motivation to hurl every insult known to the English language down the phone at whoever still considered it funny to trick him, he couldn't reply. Which was rather disappointing, John found.

He threw the phone onto the bed and decided to set to work anyway. Lestrade had sent him a new case yesterday evening. Serial killer, mainly of men in their thirties, who had left no evidence behind whatsoever. So far. It would probably be a boring case, a single clever explanation that would wrap up the case by the afternoon, but at least it would be a distraction.

A very welcome one at that.

* * *

John was starting to regret abandoning Lestrade to chase after the killer on his own. Not only were the chases much less exciting without Sherlock running by his side, but after running through a maze of alleyways and being assaulted by the unforgiving rain for what felt like hours, John could feel his body start to protest. His muscles ached and his lungs screamed and his heart pounded furiously in his chest but that wasn't what bothered him. Three years of a monotonous existence had to have some excitement sometime. He was just sick of the endless memories that skulked in the corners or in the shadows, following him around and attacking him when he least expected it. He saw the diversion that Sherlock had used in their first ever case while chasing the cab. One of the hide-outs used by the homeless network. The ghosts of several late-night ventures into the depths of London, the battlefields. He'd missed them all.

He finally ground to a halt to gather up as much precious air into his lungs as he could manage. He seemed to have lost the killer, which was rather surprising as the man obviously had severe breathing problems due to years of heavy smoking. A disbelieving laugh escaped John's lips and he shook his head, not bothering to wipe the smile from his face. He'd never quite decided whether it amused him or irritated him that Sherlock-style deductions sometimes slipped into his mind now. Usually he didn't seem to realise he was relying on them until Lestrade raised an impressed eyebrow. At least he had enough self control to not blurt out these deductions and insult everyone in the room. Unlike a certain consulting detective.

The icy rain poured down on him, merciless and ferocious, and yet John had no desire to hide from it. His heart still beat furiously and the blood was rushing to his head. This wasn't an alley anymore, in the guts of the city. This was the battlefield and he was relishing it.

Buried in his trouser pockets, his phone screamed out for attention, breaking John free from his trance and dragging a groan from the doctor. He yanked it out of his pocket with almost too much force, expecting a lecture from Lestrade on why he should stop running off. Instead he felt a rush of hot rage flood through him as the dreaded untraceable number showed up again, ruining his post-battle high. The temptation to ignore it was overwhelming but a small shred of curiosity implored him to open the message.

**Run.**

John frowned at the single word, just as blunt and pointless as the last one had been. The urge to reply was irritating in its intensity. He wanted to ask why this person seemed to have too much time on his hands. He suspected Anderson. He wasn't ashamed to admit that he had inherited Sherlock's role as 'chief Anderson insulter'. The idiot deserved it.

He could just ignore the message. In fact he _would _ignore it. It was stupid and pointless and-

**John, run!**

John started as the sound of footsteps sounded from behind him. Large footsteps, strong. Too strong for him to deal with while the numb cold of the rain froze his muscles. He regretted not bringing his gun now. Oh, this was stupid! This person could be completely harmless. Instinct and experience told him otherwise though. Without a second thought he sprinted down the alley, turning into the side street only to find himself lost in another endless maze. This couldn't be his serial killer. He wasn't going to risk a look back but he could tell that his opponent was too fast to be that middle-aged smoker. His pursuer could be a friend, perhaps.

He swore as he tripped over a large bundle, which at a second glance turned out to be a thin, homeless man who'd been sound asleep with a worn coat acting as a blanket. John uttered an apology to the bewildered man before rising to his feet again. The fall had caused his speed to falter though, he struggled to regain his pace and the ferocious pounding of footsteps on the concrete behind him was becoming ever closer.

If this turned out to simply be Lestrade, John decided he was going to kill his mysterious messenger.

This thought was instantly disproved, although John was hardly given the time to dwell on that. A large force struck him on the back of the head with a sickening crack. The impact caused his vision to fade and the ground came up to meet him as the world around him dissolved into blackness.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N Sorry for the slightly longer wait for this chapter. It took a while for me to finally be happy with it. Hopefully the next one will be up sooner :)**

_Disclaimer: I still don't own Sherlock. As much as I would love to._

* * *

The sharp, biting cold was the first thing that John was fully aware of as he rested in the void between consciousness and sleep. He didn't want to open his eyes, although he doubted he had any choice in the matter seeing as his body had decided that it was time to wake up. The icy cold dug painfully into his skin and refused to be kind, choosing to mercilessly attack his body and his senses and bring him from a state of relative comfort to full-blown awareness. Although, he was slightly grateful for the sobering effect it had on him. It saved the long minutes it would take for his mind to catch up with what had happened and for the full seriousness of his frankly grim situation to finally dawn on him. Which was a start, he supposed.

Physically he wasn't too badly hurt. His trained doctor's senses told him that. While his mind was still swimming slightly from the sharp blow he'd received to the back of the head, which had left a dried trail of sticky blood in it's wake, he didn't seem to be suffering from anything that would suggest that the wound was too serious. And he imagined his protesting muscles and screaming lungs were to be expected when he'd been unconscious for god knew how long. A few hours at least. He'd probably been roughly handled on the way here but he hadn't been intentionally hurt. If there was pain to come then it was still lying in wait for him.

Groaning with the surprising effort it took to raise himself into a seating position, he finally risked a look around at his surroundings. He wasn't bound by rope or chained to the wall but the ache in his muscles as he sat up told him that neither of those were necessary. He was in no position to fight back or escape, even if he wanted to. And even if that option had been available to him he wasn't going to find escaping this place an easy task. The room that held him like a trapped animal was small but at the same time felt strangely spacious. John blamed this on the fact that, besides his presence, there was nothing note-worthy about it. The room was completely bare, caved in by grey concrete walls and a steel door which faced John almost mockingly. His means of walking out of here were right before his eyes and yet he could see by the lack of a handle that it could only be opened from outside. Damn. This wasn't a room. It was a cage. There was almost a Mycroft feel to the place but that thought was expelled quickly from John's mind. Even that pompous twat wouldn't go this far.

John swayed slightly and rested his head against the cool wall for support. His head wound still seemed to be taking it's toll on his body and a wave of nausea had spread over him as he tried to move again. Perhaps staying still was the better idea. He was hardly going anywhere anyway. His eyes lifted slightly as he heard the lock click on the large door and despite the swirling mess of dark greys that obscured his vision he was still aware that the door was slipping open. It took a while for him to finally focus on the man who now stood opposite him, looking down on his prey with a strange sense of pride, and when he finally did manage to clear his vision the image of his abductor was hardly what he'd been expecting.

The man before him was obviously fairly young, younger than John at least, but there was a sharpness in his gaze and the way he held himself that made him seem older. He had a strong build despite not being particularly large and John could easily recognise the slight military stance in the way he stood. He'd found himself standing that way for a while after returning from the war. He was dealing with an ex-soldier, albeit one who hardly seemed the type to want to have a long chat about his experiences in the war with him. Wild blonde hair framed his face and his sharp gaze and tight jaw managed to send a slight jolt of fear throughout John despite the fact that this man hadn't said a word. He was sure he recognised him vaguely though. The memory of this man was locked away in the corner or his mind but he couldn't recall ever coming across him.

The man's thin lips curved into a smile at the sight of his conscious prey, his annoyance at how long it had taken for the doctor to finally wake up starting to dissipate into the already cold atmosphere of the room. He had spared no expense for this John Watson when it came to the location of where he was held. Only the best for those connected with Sherlock Holmes. "I suppose I should apologise for the strength of the blow to your head. Forgive me." He sounded as if this was merely something he wanted out of the way rather than being genuinely regretful. He wandered over to the centre of the room, not taking his trained eye from John for even a second like he was a curious child examining some pathetic creature. It occurred to John that his voice was rather unpleasant to listen to, like sandpaper to his ears, grating and rough and adding to the already chilling atmosphere. The man looked down at John for a moment longer as if trying to read him but was finding to his frustration that his prisoner gave nothing away. "Sebastian Moran," he finally introduced himself, smiling as he awaited a long overdue reaction.

John's eyes narrowed as the name met his ears. Sure enough, it was familiar. They'd served together in the same regiment and while he could hardly have considered Moran as a friend, they had been allies in a bitter war. John remembered putting himself in the firing line at one point in order to save this man from a gunshot wound. This wasn't exactly the nicest way he'd ever been thanked for his efforts.

"What do you want?" John cringed slightly at how pathetically quiet his voice seemed but at least he hadn't betrayed any fear. He sounded almost detached, a fact that would have made Sherlock proud. The name brought an all-too familiar pain twisting throughout John's chest but he managed to ignore it for the time being. This was more important.

Moran didn't react to John's words for a while. He was too busy considering them, wondering how far to delve into his answer. It was too soon for the real fun to start but perhaps a teaser. A little way to play with the doctor's mind. That would be good. "I want to finally meet a friend of yours. I've been eager to meet him for some time."

John was confused. He tried not to show it but considering how little control he had over his own body right now he imagined Moran could see his confusion anyway. He'd grown so detached over the past three years that the only person he truly considered a friend was Lestrade, and that was mainly because the two men had shared their grief over that time. Mycroft had never truly been forgiven for handing Sherlock's life story to Moriarty on a silver platter and he'd barely seen Mrs Hudson since moving out of the flat with the exception of her Christmas gatherings. And he couldn't consider the obvious. If Sherlock was the one that Moran was after then he was several years too late.

Moran's sharp laugh dragged John from his thoughts, the unpleasant sound reverberating unnaturally around the small room. He was enjoying this too much, John noticed. Far too much. "You don't know, do you?"

"Don't know what?" John frowned as Moran continued to enjoy his own concealed knowledge. His voice may have been weak but he was sure he'd managed to sound demanding enough, and yet even that wasn't enough to snap Moran free from his laughter. John knew he had been brought here for a specific reason. A hostage, he imagined. Why did that always seem to be the case with him?

The laughter finally stopped to John's relief and Moran crouched down so that he was eye-level with his prisoner. He was hungry for a reaction now. For that inevitable realisation to dawn on the doctor followed by pathetic denial. He had often wondered why his boss had obtained such enjoyment in playing with people's minds when surely a bullet to their heads would have been more fun to watch, but he was starting to understand now. Why Moriarty had relished destroying people mentally rather than getting his hands dirty with blood. It was because the result was so much more pleasing. Finally he sneered, barely hiding the anticipation for the reaction to his next words.

"That you're mourning a breathing man."

The stabbing pain returned to John's chest and he visibly flinched as Moran's implication mixed with the cold attacked his mind. He tensed as much as he could in a pointless attempt to look undefeated and a bitter 'Shut up,' escaped his lips in a low snarl. He had seen his best friend die before his eyes and that very fact had haunted him for three painfully long years. The idea that he wasn't dead was pleasant, wonderful even, but impossible. John couldn't give in to false hope, no matter how tempting doing so was right now. Damn Sherlock. Why the hell couldn't he move on from that wonderful idiot? "Sherlock's dead. Moriarty killed him."

That was what John had convinced himself of in the end. Perhaps the consulting criminal had said things to Sherlock, forced him into jumping, pushed him, _anything._ But Sherlock would never have jumped on his own. He was too proud of himself for that.

Moran's jaw clenched visibly at the mention of Moriarty and John could almost see a flicker of hurt cross over the other man's features before vanishing. Good. John counted that as a small victory. He had managed, just for a second, to get under Moran's skin and make him feel something. And it didn't matter that he was now greeted with an amused smile, for he knew he had the ability to hurt Moran.

It also occurred to John that his abductor was more likely to hurt him but that could wait.

Moran rose to his feet again and pulled his phone free from the pocket of his ill-fitting jeans. It occurred to John that the casual clothes that donned him looked rather unnatural for a man of his kind, not to mention the fact that he seemed rather uncomfortable in them. He'd probably disguised himself earlier and hadn't bothered changing. "Sherlock is dead, you say?" Moran cast John a mocking glance before returning his attention to the phone. "We'll see about that. I've already sent him a message and a lovely photo of you while you were asleep. Let's see if he still cares about his pet."

John was starting to feel uneasy. Yes, Sherlock was dead. Of that, there was no doubt in his mind and if there was then he'd have been able to prove otherwise by now. John had felt his cold wrist three years ago and had felt his heart shatter as the absence of a heartbeat had greeted him. He would give every ounce of his being to be reunited with a living, breathing version of his best friend but had long since accepted the impossibility of such wishes. And yet here was Moran, convinced that the detective was still alive.

Nutter.

John smiled as he realised he'd said this aloud. Judging by the way Moran tutted in disapproval and the fact that a tremor had run through his hand, John imagined that the other man would prefer to be more violent. He seemed to be restraining himself for later. "That may be, but I wouldn't be so sure."

John opened his mouth to respond with some clever remark but the sound of shouting and a single gunshot from outside drew his attention to the door, sending an overwhelming wave of both hope and fear throughout him. Perhaps this was help, maybe he'd finally been found. And yet, he couldn't help the feeling of ice slipping into his stomach as he found himself with the irrational fear for the life of a dead man. He'd let Moran's words get to him. That was a mistake.

"Well well." Sebastian smiled in the direction of the disruption before turning to face his prisoner once again. "Looks like your friend has arrived."


End file.
